


Stars Go Blue: A Mass Effect Short Story

by panda_reads



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Asari Melding, Complicated Relationships, Coping, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Mass Effect 2, Mass Effect 2: Lair of the Shadow Broker, Mass Effect Spoilers, None of my male RPG avatars have healthy coping skills in any aspects of their lives, Sexual Content, Slight LotSB remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 06:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17219066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_reads/pseuds/panda_reads
Summary: There was a time the electricity didn’t hum in his head, didn’t vibrate throughout his body. He dreams in blue, ever since that first embrace, and dreamed in blue until that last night before the long dark… He dreams in static now, with electricity and dark energy and heat in every vein and cell of his body, and he cannot remember a time before it. This body feels foreign, and he feels like an invader in it.Or,The galaxy has a chance while Shepard and Liara are around.Their enemies? Not so much.Their own emotions and feelings? More complicated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-ME2, pre-ME3 – a soldier-turned-vanguard; contains spoilers through ME2 and ME2: Lair of the Shadow Broker (wee remix of LotSB)
> 
> General Warnings: language, depression, sickness, self harm, violence, psychological and sexual themes
> 
> Note: In Jewish mythology, a dybbuk is a malicious possessing spirit believed to be the dislocated soul of a dead person. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dybbuk).

He stands beneath the hot water in the bathroom, eyes closed, breathing steam and heat into his aching chest. The water crashes against his skin, and he wishes it were stronger, a barrage, violence to counter the horrific images he can still see: the waves of Collector swarms, the face of a woman as she melts within her prison.

The glowing eyes of the human Reaper, as it hangs, half-finished, and then violently alive, reaching for him and his team, the glowing tubes in its back filled with all that remains of thousands of people. Thousands of lives lost, snatched away, to fuel this nightmare.

He only knows one word to describe it, a word long-forgotten from childhood: _dybbuk_.

He breaths through his nose, pushing the memory away. _They used to tell stories: be good, or the_ dybbuk _will get you. Don’t fight, don’t run, or the_ dybbuk _will get you._

 _When one of us would disappear, they’d warn the younger kids: the_ dybbuk _got him. You’ll be next if you don’t do what we say._

He pushes a fist against the wall, blue tendrils of energy looping around his fingers, flickering beneath his skin. He takes a deep breath, steam digging deep within his lungs. He remembers its golden-red eyes, its gnashing chrome teeth, the writhing torso and limbs, and the haunting, grinding sounds…

He squeezes his eyes shut.

_It didn’t get us._

_It didn’t get_ me _._

The _Normandy SR-2_ lives, the crew lives, the colonists are dead, his entire team is alive, their enemies are dust, and here he is, trying to drown in heat, because it is easier than the groaning whine in his head.

He exhales, forcing the air out, droplets of water splattering the wall.

A long-ago memory surfaces:

_Teeth and tendrils and fire._

_Acid burning every surface, scalding heat through armor, the agony of bruised flesh and broken bones. The stench of incinerated flesh and melting slag._

_On the ground, barely able to move, and all around: the screams. He sees Toombs, scrambling to escape, so close, a grasping hand within reach._ I’ve got you! _he tries to scream, but death is stronger than he is in this moment. Toombs howls his name, before disappearing._

_The sounds fade soon after, and so does he, the dark consuming him._

_He dreams of The City, the place he called home as a child, he dreams of the walls, the ancient streets, the struggle to survive, day after day. He dreams of the smell of bread baking in a hearth oven, unchanged over the centuries, dreams of stealing precious moments, to smell the scent of safety and home, and the kind woman who ran the bakery, how she’d give the kids a round of bread and hummus, and tell them to share with the littlest ones._

_The older kids used to scare the little ones, warn them about the past, scare them with stories about disappearing, about fire and plagues, and warning them that they would never be safe. He tried to tell the littler kids otherwise; he tried his best to protect them, because they didn’t deserve to have nightmares. They hadn’t chosen life on the streets, hadn’t chosen to be forgotten by society and The City._

Toombs. Toombs was just like them, and I failed him too.

_He comes around to the smell of fire, burned flesh, and pain. He struggles to his feet, stumbles away from the death site, to the colony. He makes it to the spaceport, calls for help, his voice hurts, his entire body aches, and he’s sitting there, half-dead and alone, when the rescue ships arrive. He’s the only survivor, and he can barely remember what living feels like._

_He dreams of the kind woman and The City, and the smell of life turns into the smell of acid-scorched flesh._

_He’ll never eat meat again._

In the present, he stares at the wall.

He cranks up the heat on the shower, burns for as long as he can stand. He turns the water off, steps away.

He doesn’t feel clean. It will be a very long time before he feels clean again.

He picks up a towel, wraps it around his waist, winces at a barely healed wound above his left hip. The skin is thin and tender, and all it will take is a solid impact to tear it open. He finds a pack of bandages tucked away in a drawer, wraps them around his torso, intent on keeping his insides where they belong. It’s not a pretty patch job, but it will do.

He leans on the sink, staring at his reflection.

Red hair, deliberate beard around his chin, green eyes rimmed with dark bruises.

The scruff on his cheeks needs to go.

He shaves, carefully, uses an old-fashioned razor he found on the Citadel during their last trip. He figured, if they were going into certain death, he’d at least have one small part of home with him. He’s always used a real razor, never anything laser-based. If you’ve got a steady hand, there’s no need for technology.

_Even growing up – real thing, or nothing._

When he’s clean, he manages a small smile.

“Not bad,” he murmurs. “You look half-alive now.”

He sighs, rakes his hands through his hair, looks at the mirror. He’s covered in scars – a few new ones here and there, but he can remember how many used to be there, before his (death) long sleep.

His smile vanishes. He’s still not thought about it, not really.

_No time to think about it. No time to consider it. Dead is dead is dead._

_Not dead._

_No time to think about it._

_Keep thinking like that; it’ll get to you, too._

He pushes a fist into the sink countertop, focusing on the pressure.

The swirl of blue biotic energy curling around his fingers startles him. He stares at his hand. He swallows, tastes electricity and static. Until this moment, he hasn’t thought about that either. It’s felt like second nature, the biotics, like he’s always had them.

_Not like someone ripped me open and remade me._

He steps back from the mirror, looks at his body. The bandages hide his wound, but he can see his hip bones. Looking at his fist, he sees his fingers, leaner than they should be. He stares at his reflection over the counter, can see his collar bones beneath his skin, sees a peek of rib. If he turns around and cranes his neck, he’ll see his shoulder blades.

_Barely back from being a corpse, half-way back to it._

It’s been this way since he was young. The littlest ones always took priority, and the bigger kids, the violent ones, they dominated everything. Food was something they learned to live without. It’s a thought process that has followed him into adulthood, well beyond the time in his life where he knows it should have gone by the wayside.

Still, he can get by without it.

He’s barely thought about eating during the past few weeks. Gardner always makes sure there’s something prepped and ready for him in the refrigeration unit in the mess – the cook picked up quickly on what he will and won’t eat, and that he prefers to eat alone, with minimal interaction, but also noticed that, if left to his own devices, he’ll just ignore food altogether until someone (Dr. Chakwas) threatens to ground him – but he can’t remember the last time he put actual food in his mouth and didn’t taste an underlying strangeness.

_Batteries. Everything tastes like batteries and copper and power outlets._

He steps away from the mirror, finds his shorts and trousers on the shelf, gets half dressed, walks out of the bathroom. He finds his way to the couch, and sinks into it, leaning back, closing his eyes. The heat relaxed his muscles, but he still feels stiff and sore. Everything hurts, physically, and on a deeper, unfamiliar level.

 _I can feel my fucking nerves_.

He shivers, blinks, looks at his hands. Blue energy flickers beneath his skin.

 _Looks better on other people_.

The ache shifts to his heart.

 _Liara_.

He’s tried not to think about her. He knows the truth, knows what she did to save him. Another man would think she’d betrayed him, turning him over to his enemies, but he knows her too well to think that. She saved him, protected him as best she could, and he’d give anything to have her within reach now.

He’s tried to push all memories of her from his mind. Since this whole mess started, since waking up in Cerberus hands, since dealing with all of this insanity, the only person who ever made him feel whole is not within reach. He’s tried to cope with that by separating his memories from the reality of who she is now.

The stranger who wears her face, reflecting no trace of the person he knows (loves?) and remembers.

_“I’ll flay you alive… with my mind.”_

He doesn’t know that person. He wishes he did, wishes he had that strength, but, the strong parts of him are buried. He’s fading, trying to sink into the skin he’s in now, and the skin just feels thin and unwelcome. He doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel that _what_ he’s become matches the memories.

He doesn’t imagine he would match her memories of him either. The brief kiss in her office, the one she broke before she was all business, no trace of his Liara in her face. Maybe she was disappointed; maybe what he is now is not what she wants any longer.

_I was a decent soldier. They rooted around in my head, took me apart, put me back together, made me something else, a soldier with literal power in my hands. Even after all their apologies and explanations, they turned me inside out._

He shudders. He’s actively avoided Lawson since helping her sister and developing a grudging admiration for her. He respects her abilities, her intelligence, but, despite her very pronounced resignation from Cerberus, he still sees her as an unknown. The way she looks at him doesn’t help. That look as if she knows him, inside and out, all his secrets, and thinks she’s the only one who can bring _him_ to the surface.

_Only ever wanted one person to look at me like that._

He remembers meeting Liara for the first time – shy, sweet, gentle Liara, back when all he knew about her was her mother’s name and a tenuous connection to the vision in his head. After saving her, he found her a calming presence, unpretentious, asking little, hiding in her small office, half-afraid of the rest of the crew, half-insulted by how they treated her. She was so different from anyone else he’d ever met, so convinced of her work and its importance, and to hell what anyone else thought.

He’d never felt such a _fondness_ for someone before her, an instant liking for a person.

When it became something more, so suddenly, there was a small part of him that rejoiced. It was simple, innocent, nothing like he’d known as a child or as a young man. Someone who wanted him because of who he was, not because of what they could take from him.

He exhales, a weary sigh.  _She’s changed._

He’s changed, too, but, not so much that he didn’t still want to kiss her when he saw her. Not so much that he hasn’t dreamed of her face during the few rough hours he’s slept. He hasn’t changed so much that there weren’t a few moments on the Collector home world where he thought he was going to die.

_And she’ll never know how much I miss her._

He gets up from the couch with a groan, and manages the few steps to the bed. He curls up on his side, mumbles, “EDI? Could you dim the lights, please?”

_[ Dimming lights now ]_

The lights fade, and he rests there, one arm curled beneath his pillow, the other stretched out to rest on the empty side of the bed. Once, not so long ago in his memories, in a different bed on a different ship, a body shared that space with him. Blue skin, bright blue eyes, a smile that could light up his gloomiest days.

_I wish you were here. I miss you._

_[ Commander? ]_

He lifts his head, glances at the AI’s blue orb hovering in the corner.

“Yes, EDI?”

_[ Would you like me to restrict your communicator for the next six hours? ]_

“Why six?”

_[ Six hours is optimal ‘recharge’ time for humans, Commander ]_

He smiles faintly, shakes his head. The AI’s developed mothering tendencies. Wonders will never cease.

“Just two hours, EDI.”

 _What I wouldn’t give for six hours to myself_.

_[ Yes, Commander ]_

 

* * *

 

He tries to relax, tries to let go of the thoughts occupying his mind, the memories hovering at the edge of his consciousness, the voice of a lost friend echoing in his ears. Instead, he hears the _kssh ksssh kssssh_ of white noise, and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think of anything that can force that sound away.

At some point, he drifts into a restless sleep.

There was a time the electricity didn’t hum in his head, didn’t vibrate throughout his body. He dreams in blue, ever since that first embrace, and dreamed in blue until that last night before the long dark.

He dreams of suffocating in a frozen void. He dreams of the heat of The City. The comfortable warmth of a spaceship cabin, a private place where peace is a possibility.

He dreams of blue hands, reaching for him. A mouth pressed to his, a yearning kiss. Two bodies, merging, truly becoming one being, sex as spiritual fusion, his mind in hers and hers in his, and he dreams of the first time she touched his mind, and the last.

His mind is static now, with electricity and dark energy and heat in every vein and cell of his body, and he cannot remember a time before it. This body feels foreign, and he feels like an invader in it. He does not remember what his body felt like before, does not remember a time before such questions like _who am I, what have you done to me,_ and _what was I before_.

 _Before the darkness_.

_I died. I died. I died._

_I died alone._

He bolts awake. He scrambles from the bed, covers the distance as fast as he can, drops to his knees in front of the toilet, and vomits. He gasps, hovering, panting. An electric jolt surges up his arm. He sees blue energy, his body rebels, and he retches again and again, until there’s nothing left. He weakly slaps the side of the toilet, and the vacuum of space consumes the mess.

He slides across the floor, back against the sink cabinet, head between his knees.

_[ Commander? ]_

He ignores the voice. He does not want to talk, does not want to hear questions about his health, his well-being. He wants to curl into a ball and fade away, wants someone else to carry the responsibility and burden of the galaxy for a little while. He wants to exist in a void.

_[ Commander? ]_

He closes his eyes. _Not right now. I’m no one’s commander right now. I’m just me, and the one person who could possibly help me is far away. She will never want me again, never want me like this, not ever again._

_[ … Aaron? ]_

He jerks his head up.

 _No one’s called me that in years_.

The AI.

He slowly stands, wobbling on his feet for a moment. He calls out, his voice hoarse, “Yes, EDI?”

_[ There is a new message for you, Commander. It may be of interest_ _]_

He snorts a weak laugh. _Of course. Always business. There’s always a message. There’s always something._

“Can you give me the short version?” he asks, leaning against the counter. He turns on the faucet, cups his hands, splashes water on his face, spits a mouthful into the sink, drinks another. _Fade away into nothing. Just fade away and let them fix it alone. Without me._

_[ It involves Liara T’Soni, Commander, and her interest in the Shadow Broker ]_

He blinks, staring at his weary reflection.

“How far out are we from Illium?”

_[ Three hours to a relay, and another two from Illium ]_

“Have Joker take us in,” he says reflexively. “Tell Lawson to meet me at the shuttle once we’ve crossed the relay. I’m heading to medical first.”

_[ Are you feeling well, Commander? ]_

“I’m fine, EDI.”

_[ Your bio-signature does not indicate that statement as truth, Shepard ]_

Scolding him. The goddamn AI is _scolding_ him.

Suddenly annoyed, he growls, “I’m _fine_ , EDI.”

_[ … Yes, Commander. I will have Miss Lawson meet you ]_

He swallows, finds a clean shirt, pulls it over his head. He steps out of the washroom, opens his computer, reads the email. Information on the Broker, a potential location. It’s enough. It will be enough to get her to listen, to come with him for a short time.

_Just a short time, a short enough time to be near her, to hear her voice, see her face, smell her scent… the tang of flowers and electricity._

He lingers by the desk for a moment, glances at the picture, the face looking at him, from a much simpler time, when, it seems to him, they were both younger. He reaches out, brushes his fingers against the glass.

“Hey,” he says softly, “I’ve got something for you. Maybe we can talk. When this is over… maybe we can talk.”

He pulls his discarded boots on, walks out of his room, heads to the elevator, takes those few moments to become Commander Shepard once more. No one needs to know who he is when he’s alone, no one needs to know about the ache inside, the chaos in his mind, the static and dark energy and _blue like her eyes_ in his dreams.

He clenches a fist, digs his fingernails into his palm.

_Put on your goddamn face, Aaron. Don’t ever let anyone see you weak._

No. That is the last thing he ever wants them to see.

 

* * *

 

When the elevator stops on Deck 3, he feels more at ease in his identity. The deck crew will not bother him, not unless it’s to say ‘thank you’, in which case he will politely but firmly say he’s glad they’re alive, glad they’re all here, but, _please excuse me_.

He walks into the med bay, where Chakwas peers at him from her desk. She narrows her eyes, and raises an accusing finger. “And why, pray tell, do I smell vomit?”

He is incapable of lying to her, but tries: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“EDI mentioned you were on your way.”

“I’ve got some business on Illium.”

“Right,” she drawls, “we just survived a suicide mission, but, of course, go off to Illium.”

He shrugs.

She shakes her head. “Have you eaten, or slept?”

“Yes,” he lies.

She sighs. “I really have no idea why I bother.”

“Bother with what?” he asks, trying for innocence.

She gives him a withering look, stands and crosses the room. She roots around in a drawer and retrieves a small intravenous bag. “I cannot believe you talked Mordin into this.”

He rolls up his sleeve, and sits in a chair. “It works.”

“It doesn’t,” Chakwas says. “It’s not a substitute for proper food and sleep, and, one of these days, this behavior is going to catch up with you. You keep this pace up, and you’re going to—“ She stops herself, scowling at him.

He waits patiently.

She sighs, finds IV tubing and a needle. She has him make a fist, finds a vein, slips the needle in on the first try, tapes it down, hooks up the bag, and allows the nutrient drip to flood his veins. He sits back in the chair, smiling faintly. “Thank you, Karin,” he says, very softly.

She pulls her chair over, sits down with him. “One of these days,” she says again, calmly, “this isn’t going to be an option.”

He nods. “I know.”

“You need actual rest, proper food. I’ll talk to Rupert; there must be something in that horror show he calls a kitchen that you’ll eat.”

He says nothing.

“What are you thinking about?”

“You’re worried about me.”

“Someone needs to.” She sighs. “You are the glue holding them all together right now, you know that.”

He cannot hide his exhausted sigh. He knows. He doesn’t need her to remind him.

Chakwas shakes her head. “I wish it wasn’t that way. You’ve done enough. I’m not the only one who thinks so.” She folds her arms. “What do you plan to do after Illium?”

“Haven’t decided.” He leans his head back.

“Does this little trip have something to do with Liara?”

“I can’t hide anything from you.”

“You really can’t,” she agrees.

He smiles, and her heart nearly breaks at the weariness behind it. “I miss her,” he admits. “She made me feel… real.” He bows his head. “Back then, I was _real_. Now…” His voice trails off. “You’re the only one who sees me here.”

“Garrus sees you. So does Tali. Even Joker, in his own way. They see you.”

“That isn’t the same. They see a shell. They see a, a…” He shakes his head. “They don’t see _me_.”

She understands. “Do you think _she_ will see you again after whatever you’re planning?”

He lifts a hand, blue energy dancing around his thin fingers. He does not answer her question.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Lawson is waiting in the cargo bag when they’re twenty minutes out from Illium.

“Commander,” Lawson says, “Is everything alright?”

“Fine,” he replies, mask in place, role secure. “I’ve got some business on Illium.”

She nods. “Do you anticipate much trouble?”

“Not at this time, no.”

“I see.” Lawson respects secrets, though she adds, awkwardly and incapable of not sounding nosey, “Have you eaten anything, Shepard?”

“Not hungry.” It isn’t a complete lie.

“You never are,” she replies.

“No,” he agrees, “I never am.”

She stops outside the shuttle, looks at him with sharp eyes, a frown creasing her mouth. “Shepard,” she says, her voice low, “we’ve all had a rough few days since we got back. Don’t take all the burden for yourself. We’re all willing to share it. We shared it there, you brought us back. Let us take a little of it.” She reaches out a hand, touches his shoulder. “Let _me_ take a bit of it,” she says.

He gently shrugs her hand away.

She sighs, not wanting to fight with him. “So. Illium. What’s the situation?”

“It involves Liara. Sounds like the Shadow Broker too.”

Lawson’s perfect face pales. “Oh.”

He waves a hand. “I know about the deal you two made to keep me away from him.”

She relaxes. “Oh.” She raises her hand.

_Touch me again, Lawson, and you will_ lose _that hand…_

She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m… worried.”

“About?”

“You.”

He can’t help the annoyed growl that escapes his throat, grits his teeth and walks to the shuttle. _Should’ve told the damn krogan to come along instead. Grunt would leave it alone._

He misses Wrex unbearably in that moment, misses the old warrior’s sarcasm and wit, his thousand-year wisdom, bloody as it is. He wishes he’d been able to drag him away from Tuchanka. How odd to view a krogan as a mentor, but Shepard feels a kinship with him, living as Wrex does in a bombed out ancient world. _It’s not so different from home, really._

Maybe that’s why Grunt looks to him, he recognizes that same familiarity. Shepard hopes he can be half the teacher Grunt needs, half the teacher Wrex was two years ago. In battle, they were powerhouses, machines without compare, complimenting one another with pure force and strength.

_Liara was there, too. She was like water, blue and fierce, and we were unstoppable._

He sees her in his mind’s eyes, vivid, fresh. He knows the kind of team he works best with; he knows what he needs. He almost tells Lawson to forget it, go back to her office, he’s got someone else in mind to come with him.

She catches him, astounding him at how fast she can run in heels. “Look,” she says sharply, “it’s not out of line for me to question your fitness. You’re exhausted, even I can see that. This can wait. I need some time, and we need to talk—“

“About?”

She sighs, exasperated. “You can’t be that stupid.”

“Obviously I can, because I don’t know what you want to talk about.” He can’t keep the accusation out of his voice, as he says, “You’re regretting your decision to leave Cerberus?”

She shakes her head. “No. The Illusive Man showed his true face. I won’t sell my species out for power.”

Shepard doesn’t entirely believe her. He’s living proof of just how far she’s willing to go.

Her expression shifts. “I _won’t_ ,” she insists. “I will never, ever allow what was done to me, or my sister, or to you, happen to anyone else. All I’m asking is that you give me a chance to—“

“To what?”

She folds her arms. “I’m… we’re not having this conversation here.”

“ _You_ are having a conversation,” he retorts. “Obviously not with me, but with someone.” He walks into the shuttle; she follows, grumbling.

She takes a seat, makes a show of examining her weapons.

He sits across from her, never taking his eyes away from her hands.

She scowls at him.

He maintains a neutral expression, but inside, oh, inside. Inside, he’s exhausted fury. If he had the energy, he’d be screaming at her that if she’d just had the decency to leave him dead, if she’d left him alone, if she’d just let the whole mess be, then at least he’d be at peace in his own mind, but he doesn’t have that.

_Liara. I know you did what you thought you had to do, but you left me with_ her _._

Reluctant to take his eyes off her, he leans his head back, because keeping his eyes open any longer will lead to the potential for conversation, or, worse, accusation. He doesn’t have the desire for either. All he wants is to be done with this charade. Eventually, their luck will run out, the _Normandy SR-2_ will be impounded as stolen Alliance property, and he’ll probably be in a cell, if not an execution chamber.

_And then the galaxy burns, and they’ll blame me for not saving them._

He closes his eyes, and, try though he might to avoid it, dreams about the _dybbuk_ , the countless souls that fuel it, the glowing eyes and the gnashing teeth. Then, there’s a monstrous hand knocking the platform he’s standing on to an angle, and he’s falling, falling, falling… and the _dybbuk_ grasps him, eats him alive, and now he’s part of the beast…

He jerks awake, barely five minutes gone since they left the _Normandy_.

Lawson stares at him, refusing him the courtesy of ignoring his nightmare.

He doesn’t break eye contact with her, struggles to breathe through his nose.

She speaks: “You’re going to get yourself, or the crew, killed if you keep this up.”

He feels a spasm in his throat. He’s going to puke or scream, he’s not sure which, if she says one more word.

“You’re a mess,” she continues, superiority dripping in every syllable. “You’re not safe to be around, and this new mission you’re taking? This is too personal. You’re letting it get personal.”

He clenches his fists, says nothing.

“And, because you’ve let it get personal, you’re neglecting yourself. When you do that, you put everyone at risk. You’re not fit. Chakwas is too involved with your history to tell you to your face, but I’m not.” She folds her arms, sits up straighter, looks at him with him an expression he imagines she thinks is triumphant. “This isn’t worth it.”

Shepard knows how much it will hurt her before he says: “And if the Shadow Broker bought and sold information about Oriana, you’d leave it alone, of course, because it’s personal.”

Her victory fades quickly, and he doesn’t feel good taking it from her. She’s not telling him anything he hasn’t already figured out. He folds his arms, leans back, takes a deep breath. “Everything is personal now, Lawson. We’ve moved beyond private thoughts and motivations.”

“So you’ll let it eat you alive? You’re not scavenging for survival out here, Shepard, it’s not just about the day to day anymore. It hasn’t been for ages, but you’re still living like you’re back on Earth.”

He frowns.

“I’m not an idiot,” she says. “I know your history. I know you better than you know yourself. I know what it was like for you as a child, and I know—“

“Stop.”

She does, and he sees a touch of shame in her face. Good. She deserves it.

He says, “You don’t know what it’s like to sacrifice a meal so the smaller kids can survive to the morning. You don’t know what it’s like to steal fresh bread just so you don’t starve. You don’t know what it’s like to watch old men praying to something you’re not sure exists, but they’re so _sure_ it does, because if they don’t believe, then their enemies won. You don’t know what it’s like to watch people fight over a tiny speck of land because of a war from four centuries ago, a war kids like me were born into, and never asked for.”

He rests his head against the wall of the shuttle. “Don’t tell me not to let it get personal, Lawson. You made it personal when you brought me back.”

There is silence between them for several minutes, before she says, “You could’ve been a great man if you’d just left her memory behind.”

_For you? Never._

She apologizes a moment later. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not,” he says, “but if it makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t,” she admits. “Can we agree to never speak of this conversation again?”

“What good will that do?”

“It will make me feel better,” she says.

He offers her a small smile. “It’s easier, Lawson,” he says softly, “if you try to be someone’s friend before you try to force yourself into being something more.”

Her perfect skin flushes scarlet.

“Friendly advice,” he says.

“I… have seen you naked,” she says, but she says it with such embarrassment that he can feel his tension fade. His anger transfers into a snort of laughter at her expense, which she clearly does not appreciate, as she turns even redder. “Bloody asari can’t blush,” she mumbles, raising a hand to tuck stray hair behind her ear. “If they do, they just turn purple, and you’d hardly notice.”

He folds a fist against his mouth, hiding his growing smile. He didn’t imagine he’d make her so uncomfortable. “I guess you can feel good knowing you’ve seen my skin in a way she never will,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh, my god, don’t tell anyone about this conversation.”

“What conversation?” He plays dumb, if only because it seems to table the subject.

She shakes her head, exhaling. “Fine, you’re right. Are you happy now?”

“Thrilled, Lawson.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t overprotective of Oriana.”

“Then maybe you and I have one thing in common.”

“What? That we’ve let things get too personal, but I’m a hypocrite because I keep telling you that you’re not allowed to feel that way?”

“Well, that too, now you mention it.”

She actually laughs. “Fine. You’ve made your point. You’re right: we can’t afford _not_ to take things personally anymore. There’s too much at stake for that.” She exhales. “I think you’re exhausted, but a long night’s sleep – maybe two nights – might be all you need.” She raises a hand. “Purely friendly advice, of course.”

“Of course.”

She sighs. “This is still a terrible idea, but you’ve obviously made up your mind.”

_Mind’s got nothing to do with it, Lawson._

She breaks through his thoughts. “What else do you know about the Shadow Broker?”

“He wanted to buy me and sell me to the Collectors.”

“I suspect he’s had his eye on you for a very long time.”

“What makes you say that?”

She is quiet before she says, “Before the Collectors killed you, Cerberus paid a lot of money for information about you, looking for anyway we might sway you to our side. When you died, that no longer mattered. However, I know the Broker has been keeping tabs on you for a very, very long time.”

He doesn’t have time to ask her why as the shuttle lurches toward Illium. He realizes, knowing what he does about how she got her hands on him in the first place, that the Broker’s reasons don’t interest him.


	3. Chapter 3

Illium looks different during a car chase. At night, the planet is awash in red and orange, and it looks like it’s on fire. Speaking of burning, he’s feeling the worst stress-headache he’s had since he woke up in a Cerberus lab, as he presses his foot on the gas, and curses whoever designed cabs in a corporate city-state, and didn’t think to add guns. Liara is shouting at him, he’s focused on Vasir’s escaping vehicle, and Lawson is in the back, holding on for dear life.

They crash into Azure’s parking lot, and he’s momentarily overwhelmed by the luxurious filth of the place. Dancers cower in corners, and a few wealthy patrons flee. “Azure is slang in certain parts of Illium for a part of the asari body,” Liara explains as they follow Vasir’s trail.

“Where?”

“The lower reaches, near the bottom.”

He can’t help it. “I meant… where on the asari body?”

“So did I.”

He nearly chokes on a laugh, because she’s so serious when she says it, and he glances in her direction, sees a tight, tense smile creasing her mouth. She’s flirting with him, he realizes, in a distant, almost shy fashion, as if she’s forgotten how, and he’s equally forgotten how to reciprocate. She’s never put him off guard before. It’s somewhat liberating, and, at the same time, a further reminder of how estranged they’ve become.

When they corner Vasir, it is proof to him that some things never change, no matter the distance of death, time, and rebirth.

He and Liara fight together as if they’ve not been (torn, ripped, shredded) apart. Somehow, he adapts to his biotics easier with her around, almost an opportunity to show her just how fast he’s learned, but also for her to show him how far she’s come. She no longer holds back her power; she unleashes singularities and warp attacks like breathing. She dances around the battlefield, light on her feet, elegant in white, weapon in hand, power and ferocious composure in every movement. She drags enemies into the air, dispatches them without a second thought, utterly composed and collected.

He’s reminded of the reasons he loves her, why no matter how far apart they drift, the memory of her sustains him. Her confidence in her abilities, her intelligence, her careful tactics on the battlefield, all of these things are new to his sight, and yet she moves like she’s done this her entire life. Where was he when she shed her academic skin and became a warrior?

She’s right beside him, yet he feels her absence, is suddenly haunted by the image of the bullet-hole in her apartment window, how close she was to death in that moment. His mind wanders, distracted, and if he’d died on the Collector base, she’d never know. What if she’d died here on Illium, and he was the last to know?

Unwanted emotions of rage, grief, and aggression rear in his mind. She’s not dead, and neither is he, though he can add those horrors to his mind, another nightmare to dog him later. In the present moment, he has an enemy to focus on.

Vasir puts up a fight. She’s powerful, an asari weapon, Spectre-trained, and far more experienced with her biotics than he is. He’s stubborn, though, and he’s angry, angrier than he’s felt in a long time, a rage born of the possibility of Liara’s death.

Even the Collectors didn’t make him feel like this; with them, he just felt helpless. Vasir makes him angry. She’s petty, causing suffering for the thrill of it.

_And she tried to kill Liara._

It’s unreasonable, he knows that. Liara’s not the same person she was, and he’s hardly the same person either. Still, he cares about her, still loves her, even if she’s pushed him away. They don’t belong together anymore. It’s fine. He can deal with rejection, but he can’t accept a Spectre – _another Spectre_ – killing innocent people because they can.

When Vasir falls, she falls hard, spits at him, accuses him of being unfit to judge her, all but accuses him of being a terrorist for his association with Cerberus.

_Do you know what they did to me?_ he wants to say the words. _You call me a traitor, you’d call me one of_ them _, and you don’t know what they did to me._

_Hell,_ I _don’t know what they did to me._

He looks away from Vasir, to Liara, remembering that _she_ gave him to his enemies, not Vasir. Tela Vasir did not give his corpse to his enemies, and allow them to bring him back from the dead. He was gone, dead, and _Liara_ gave him to them. He wouldn’t be here if not for her, and yet—

_I’m not alive, but I’m not dead._

_Shit, I don’t know what I am anymore._

He stands over her while Liara retrieves the data disc, watches Vasir die, the blood and life draining out of her, her eyes defiant. He thinks about all the enemies in his lifetime whose lives he’s taken, can’t recall a single one he ever took any pleasure from killing. He can think of a thousand questions he’s had over those bodies, wondering what drove them so far from their paths, and into the darkness.

He squeezes his eyes shut, thinking of Saren. How many times has he wished he’d been able to get through to the turian? How many times has he dreamed of their final encounter, and seen it go differently. What kind of galaxy might they have made if he’d been able to sway Saren back to the side of the Council? What sort of galaxy would they have made if Saren had turned _him_ instead?

_Regardless of the outcome: would we have been friends?_

He looks at Vasir’s fallen body, can’t imagine the same questions for her. She’s a small villain, a tiny enemy in a vast sea of them. He’s known the woman a short time, but sees her for the monster she’s become, how she views everyone as beneath her notice. She’d embraced the full extent of Spectre-status, something he’ll never, ever be able to do.

_I grew up in the shadow of a thousand wars. I became a soldier to stop more children from becoming like me. Now, I’m a risen corpse, I’m stitched together wounds, power woven into nerve endings and flesh, and I don’t know what I am._

_I barely know who I am._

He focuses on Vasir’s dead face.

_I’m not like you._

_I_ can’t _be like you._

His hand shakes, and he closes his fist tightly around a growing wave of energy.

_But we’re not so different, are we?_

He glances at Liara’s back. She’s focused on the data.

_Are_ we _too different?_ he wonders, before he admires how she looks in white. She’s beautiful, like ice and frost, power and self-assurance. This is not the shy scientist he remembers; she’s confident, proud, stubborn as hell. She is everything he could have hoped to find, and these changes compliment her, make her seem brighter, like a blue star in the darkness.

_Maybe mine?_

_No. Don’t be stupid._

She looks at him as he approaches her, a hopeful, tense smile on her face.

She knows where to find the Shadow Broker. She knows how to end this.

The look on her face says that this is all that matters to her, and he agrees to help, even as he feels a piece of his soul die inside. He remembers her from before, when she was younger, happier, unaware of the darker aspects of the galaxy. He misses her, misses having someone who needed him, just him. _I miss you_ , he wants to say to her, but she instead tells him her plan, to go to Halgalaz, and face the Broker. She says it fiercely, intently, and with a passionate spark in her eyes that he hasn’t realized how much he missed.

He doesn’t think she’ll ever look at him like that again. She can only see vengeance, and he still doesn’t fully know why. The Shadow Broker has her friend captive, he knows that, but, all of this hatred, just for a lost friend? He’s felt that grief before, remembers too well watching Toombs take his own life, long after he’d though his old friend dead on Akuze.

 He wonders if grief and rage are different when it’s your first taste of revenge.

He feels another part of himself die, another aspect of his past, fading into the dark.

_I’m fading into nothing, I’m nothing but a mask now, just a face to fight the darkness, and you’ll all look to me when the galaxy’s burning, and, I’m no longer sure I give a damn._

He closes his fists around the sparking dark energy in his hands, and he allows a mask for Liara, because it’s clear that he cannot be anything but Commander Shepard for her now.

 

* * *

 

 

The Shadow Broker is a nightmare made flesh.

He has no idea what it is, but he knows for damn sure he’ll dream about it. It’s twice as tall as he is. Broad, strong, teeth set in its triangular mouth, its talons shining, wearing a suit as though it was born to it, and not in the scales he can see covering its hands and face.

_Well, this is sure as hell not a dybbuk,_ is all he can think. Some new nightmare to feed his insomnia, but, at least this one doesn’t look like a skeleton made of melted humans. Brilliant.

Maybe it’s being with Liara, so close to her again, maybe it’s the exhiliaration of fighting Vasir, whatever it is, he’s feeling more at ease, more focused. He can feel his anxiety fading, some of his distress. Whatever misery that fueled the past few days is pushed to the back of his mind, because this thing, whatever the hell this thing is, it can talk, and it is the enemy they’re seeking.

He’d foolishly assumed the Shadow Broker was a turian, maybe a super smart volus. He hadn’t imagined it would be a new beast to haunt his dreams.

It is not surprise, of course, that things are about to get worse.

Liara identifies it as a yahg, and, great, now he has a name for it. She’s taunting it, and, oh, how he briefly wishes she wouldn’t do that. “… brought you as a prize. Or a _pet_. How am I doing?”

Shepard doesn’t dare takes his eyes off the yahg.

It growls. It is a deeply unpleasant sound, and it sends a shudder through his core.

He swallows. He’s not sure what’s going to happen next, but—

It throws a table at them.

Shepard dives towards Liara, pushing her out of the way. Lawson takes the full force of the blow, knocking her to the ground, unconscious. _Good, now you’re out of the way, we can handle this, and oh_ shit—

A bullet zips over his head. He can feel the air current whisper against his hair.

The yahg has a rifle.

It’s angry, ugly as hell, _and_ it can shoot a fucking rifle.

Shepard crouches into cover, growling curses in a language he hasn’t spoken since childhood, because clearly there was never any talking his way out of this situation. He dares to look, sees a glowing material draining from the ceiling, covering the Shadow Broker’s body. He squints. _What the hell…?_

“Shepard!”

He can’t risk looking away, but he listens. “What?”

“It’s a shield. Take it down and we have him!”

She’s right. He can see the glow, shimmering, shaking, sliding. It’s liquid armor, and like any armor, it has a weakness.

He clenches his fists. He feels something stir in his mind, something fed by fury, but also by a small touch of hope. _We can end this._

_We can take back this small thing._

He cracks his knuckles, and charges at the yahg. He hits its face, catches it off guard.

Liara whoops behind him. She’s cheering, and he grins, reveling in it.

_I can do this for you._

_Even if I never touch you again, I can do this for_ you _._

The distraction costs him.

The yahg hits him, gets a lucky punch to his left side, all of its weight behind the blow. He _feels_ bones crack, deep beneath his armor, but he’s damned if he’ll let that stop him. He knocks it off balance, stumbles back, opens fire with his shotgun, fiery ammunition burning through the yahg’s armor.

His chest and side hurt. Something feels downright _wrong_ inside of his armor, just under those bandages from the morning, but he keeps going. Liara’s at his side, firing her pistol, chipping away at the Shadow Broker, piece by piece.

He hits it again, and again. Three times he charges it, three times it gets in its own blows, but he shakes them off, because this is for _her_. She risked everything to save him, and he’s willing to risk the same because it’s only fair. She deserves this revenge. She deserves revenge for her friend, for what she lost, for risking everything to save him.

_She saved me._

That thought sinks its teeth into his soul.

_I’m_ alive _because of_ her.

_Time to repay that debt_.

He charges into the yahg, knocking it off balance. The whirling shield material in the ceiling shimmers, the cracked glass holding it in place trembling from the assault. He steps back, shouts, “Liara, now!” and she brings the house down.

Her hands rise, biotic energy swirling around her, pulverizing the shield. It can withstand so much, but it cannot hold out against an enraged, vengeance-driven asari. The glass cracks, the unstable matter collapses, pouring over the Shadow Broker. It burns, white-hot liquid fire ravaging its body, avenging them all.

When the steam clears, he watches Liara, slowly making her way to the bank of consoles at the back of the Broker’s office. He hears voices calling for the Broker. He watches, a proud smile masking the agony of his bruised flesh and broken bones, as Liara identifies herself as the Shadow Broker, and puts the voices back in line. The voices, one by one, fall silent, and she stands there, triumphant, powerful in white,

When it is done, she presses her hands to her face, her shoulders shaking.

He limps over to her, reaches for her, she turns to face him, tears streaking down her cheeks, and she looks at him like she hasn’t seen him in years.

He kisses her. He remembers the first time he ever saw her, hanging in that trap on Therum what feels like forever ago, recalls the beginnings of their friendship, the emotional attachment that became something more. He remembers the first time he kissed her, which feels like this time, and _please don’t let this be the last time I ever kiss you._

She wraps her arms around his neck. She returns the kiss, consumed in the moment, the memory, and he wonders if she remembers what he does. Whatever else, he can feel by her urgency, her embrace, that she means it. He does too, and he holds that hopeful thought until she gently pushes him away.

He decides to wait. Let it be her choice. Later. Let her have her victory.

“Now,” she says, her smile remaining, “let’s see what we’ve got…” 

 

* * *

 

 

He stays with her for a half-hour before he makes his way back to the _Normandy_. He manages to stay upright all the way to the med bay, staggers his way inside, croaks, “Hey, Doc? This could take a while…” and pitches forward onto the floor, just as Chakwas closes all the med bay window shutters, saving him further embarrassment, and sparing him the crew’s worry.

He bites back gasps of pain as Chakwas helps him out of his armor and onto one of the beds. She grimaces when he’s down to shirt and pants. “I know that shirt isn’t red,” she tells him. “What the almighty hell have you done to yourself?”

He doesn’t protest when she cuts his shirt off, and he hears her sympathetic scolding as she bandages the wound he was worried about earlier – _one good hit was all it took_ and he’s bled all over his shirt.

Chakwas puts him back together, as she’s done so many times before, before she sends a discrete message to Chambers, asks her to bring a fresh uniform for the Commander, please leave it outside of the med bay, thank you.

Once he’s dressed, Chakwas will not allow him to leave the med bay until she’s satisfied that he won’t pass out before he makes it to his quarters. “I’m having Rupert send something upstairs, you’re going to eat, and you’re going to sleep. Am I understood?”

He nods wearily, knowing better than to argue.

He makes it to his cabin, grateful that the elevator protects him from the crew’s prying eyes. He stumbles into his room, finds a container of soup on his desk, sinks in his chair, and manages a few mouthfuls before he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. He rests his arms on the desk, leans his head forward, and sleeps.

For the first time in days, he doesn’t dream of the _dybbuk_.


	4. Chapter 4

The following evening, Liara takes a tour of the ship, the new _Normandy_.

Shepard stays in his cabin, pours wine for them, waits for her. He doesn’t know what they’ll talk about, where this will end up, but, he hopes that at least a drink and conversation is in order. _Just some time for us._

He knows that he needs to rest. He has cracked ribs, a newly stitched up hole in his abdomen, bruises everywhere, and a few new scars. All that technology inside of him is good for something, though, because he’s already healing. He hurts, but it’s not enough to knock him out of commission. He’ll be fine.

If the tingling in his nerves ever stops, if the pulsing his head ever fades, then he’ll be fine. All of these small hurts are threatening to turn into something big. He’s unprepared for that.

He sucks in a breath when he hears the door chime. She’s out there. Talking suddenly seems difficult, complicated even. He’ll manage.

“Did you enjoy the tour?” he asks, trying to keep a friendly tone.

“Yes,” she says, “it’s a beautiful ship. I saw Joker; he seemed happy to see me. I’m glad to see Dr. Chakwas is doing well.”

“She’s familiar,” he says. “She’s been keeping us all together.”

“You, I imagine, more than anyone else,” she teases.

He manages a shrug, much as it hurts to do so. “I keep her busier than I should.”

His cracked ribs ache; he’s bruised from shoulder to hip. He has a hole in him, his head hurts, and his nerves are on fire. From her expression, Chakwas gave her a brief report of his injuries, and he says, “I’m fine.”

She sighs, and even then, with that briefly exasperated look, she’s beautiful. She’s relaxed, calm, peaceful, all those things he associates with her. He looks away from her, suddenly unsure of what to say, how to say it, or what any of this means. They barely know each other anymore, and even with this little adventure—

Her hand is on his face.

He looks at her.

“Let me see you,” she says softly.

“Not sure you wanted to.”

She laughs, but it sounds like a sob. “Goddess, I missed you.” She rests her other hand on his cheek, turning his face this way and that, studying him, examining every angle, every unblemished part of his skin, the red of his hair, his eyes, suspicion and doubt where once she only saw determination and strength. “Look what they’ve done to you,” she whispers.

He leans forward, resting his forehead against hers. He closes his eyes, feeling her warm skin, breathing her in, almost willing to let his guard down, to imagine, for a temporary moment, that nothing has changed.

She kisses him, softly, gently, as if she’s testing the waters, remembering who he used to be, who _they_ used to be. He eases into it, lips to hers, tasting her, electricity and blue and… “You didn’t wear perfume before,” he says.

She smiles. “Sometimes I like to challenge expectations.”

“Flowers,” _and vanilla and spice, tastes like the warmth of a summer day, I wonder what it’s like there now, I could show you The City, the history, the horrible beauty of it, and you’d love it_ and he kisses her again.

He remembers their recent battles, how her power and elegance drove him forward. Everything he did was for her, to save her, to give her what she wanted. He wonders, briefly, if this is real, if this is what she wants.

“Shepard?” she asks, drawing him out of his thoughts.

 “I don’t know,” he murmurs against her lips, “who I am anymore.” He blinks, looks into the blue of her eyes, can’t help it, adds, “I don’t know _what_ I am.”

She pulls him to the couch, sits, has him stretch out near her. His head rests in her lap, her hands thread through his hair. They sit, breathing, remembering, each lost in thought, until she says, “The last time I saw you…”

He says, at the same time, “I thought I lost…”

And then they both laugh, because dancing around this does nothing, and they are both acting like children. He relaxes, looking up at her, lifts a tentative hand to stroke her face. “I hoped,” he says softly, “that I’d see you again. Like this. Us.”

She smiles, sad and weary, but gentle. “I’ve had nightmares for the past two years. You have no idea the nightmares I’ve had.”

“We could compare notes.”

She laughs. “I knew exactly where you were,” she admits, “and I could have stopped them at any time. I kept telling myself that.” She blinks, tears brimming in her eyes. “Goddess, what have they done to you?” She traces her fingers around his ears, feels the implants wrapped against his skin. “You use them like you were born with them,” she says, and she means it as a compliment.

He looks at his hands, flexes his fingers. “Is it supposed to feel like I’m constantly on an electric circuit? Also, food tastes… weird.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not supposed to. I should teach you a few tricks, some meditation. It will help.” She examines his face. “You need to take better care of yourself,” she murmurs. “Look at you.”

“I know.”

“I’m one hundred and eight, Shepard. Don’t you ‘I know’ me.”

“Yes, Liara.”

She laughs, and it’s genuine, from the heart. She leans forward, kisses his forehead. “I’ve missed you,” she says again.

“You have no idea—“

“Oh, I think I do.”

She strokes her fingers through his hair, along his face, down past his shirt collar, scolds him gently when she feels his collarbones beneath his skin. “What do you need?” she asks.

“Need for what?”

“To feel more like you.”

He doesn’t hesitate: “Hummus. Pita. Coffee.”

She has no idea what the first two items are.

He laughs. “No one on this ship does.”

“I assume they are food.”

“They are.” He smiles. “Things that remind me of home.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, in lieu of feeding you, what else do you need?”

_You_ , he wants to say, to plead with her. _You. more than anything, I want you._

She startles him when she dips her head, her mouth latches to his, and she kisses him, fierce, full, firm. He twists his body upright, cups her face in his hands, tastes her warmth, the electric pulse of her biotics. She is heat, life, and everything. He breaks the kiss briefly, murmurs, “I miss you,” and she lets out a soft sob, wrapping her arms around him. He slips his arms beneath her, stands, lifting her, carrying her to the bed.

When the lights dim to dark around them, he can’t help a smile for EDI’s presence of mind. He will remember to thank the AI later.

Liara’s fingers fumble at his shirt, and he can feel the zipper at her back. He tugs it, feels the metal teeth separating beneath his fingertips, gasps softly as her hands slip under his shirt, sliding along his skin. Clothes fall to the floor, desperate hands and mouths touch and kiss. Lovers do not so easily forget the feeling of one another, and despite all they have been through, they are no exception.

He remembers the sensation of her body as if Ilos was yesterday, the first time he knew in his soul that he loved her, would die for her, would risk everything to keep her alive and safe. He loved her, trusted her, wanted no one but her, and the small memory of that first night floods through him, guiding everything that follows.

Shepard holds her tightly, feels her legs slide over his hips, presses himself inside her. She gasps, her fingers digging into his back. He closes his eyes, inhaling her sent, absorbing her warmth, wanting to be one with her, to fuse and meld with her, to remember every part of her being, from physical form to mental essence. He feels the heat of her skin, the nip of her teeth against his neck, and she pulls him down onto the bed, holding him on top of her, cradling his body, drawing him into her.

Liara remembers that night before Ilos, too. She remembers finding him in his cabin, all but begging him to bond with her before they very likely died. In the aftermath, and a month later, when he was dead, gone, an aching emptiness in her soul told her it had not been a solitary encounter. She tried to pretend it was a fling, nothing serious, but the emptiness, the echo in her mind and her soul, that desperation told her she had to find him. That promise of saving him, that horrible, awful promise, and she’d done it for selfish reasons, the agonized desire of _maybe_ seeing him again, touching him…

_Loving him._

She sighs, holding him tighter. She wants him, more than the first time, more than just that silly belief in a connection. She’d been so young, so naïve, and now he is here, real, and she _wants_ him. She tightens her grip on him, opens her mind, relaxes her body, _feels_ for those threads of _him_ , those neurons, particles, and atoms that make him who he is. He is Aaron Shepard, he is hers, only hers, she has risked everything to save him, for that foolish hope that he might still be him.

She hears the hitch in his breath, the warmth in his body. He feels the same, yet there is a subtle change, the pulsing spark of power beneath his skin, flowing deep within his flesh and bones. She dares a look at his face, flushed with desire for her, his skin mirroring the red of his hair, but the light in his green eyes, oh, she knows that light.

_It’s you. You_ are _back._

_By the goddess, I will never let you go again. You belong to me. You are mine._

She sobs, holding him, squeezing her eyes shut. She has missed him, every part of him. She feels the need within her, the desperate ache to join, to meld, to be _one_ with him, to love him as only _she_ can love him. She opens her eyes, inhales a breath, _reaches_ for his essence, his mind, his soul, pushing past his physical self, for that sparkling green and black that she recognizes as _him_.

He gasps, tightening his grip on her, breathes her name. He remembers this, this echoing pulse in his head, filtering down through his chest, a rippling mirror of _her_ in every fiber of his body. He can feel _her_ in his head, the blue-black of her eyes mirrored in his green, the blue of her skin washing into his, her body seeming to melt into his, fusing, becoming one entity. He cries out, buries his face against her shoulder, shaking as Liara’s mind touches his, melts and molds with his, and draws him into the space between existence and eternity.

They shatter into blue and—

 

* * *

 

 

He blinks, opening his eyes to darkness. He floats in it, hovers in pale blue light that washes over him, illuminating his skin. He sees his unblemished, untouched flesh, no scars, no bruises, pure and whole. He stares at his hands, stunned.

_It’s a dream._

She is there, then, in front of him, beauty and power in equal measure. White markings glow around her eyes, black where blue once dominated, and she is perfect. He slips his arms beneath hers, lifts her, holds her tightly.

_She is not a dream. She’s real. I’m real._

She fits in his arms, molds perfectly to his body. Her mouth presses to his, and that is a perfect fit as well. He feels her presence wrapping around him, a cocoon of heat, vanilla, and electricity, all of these things that are _Liara_ , and _home, lover, safety, mine._

_My love, my life, my savior, my goddess. You saved my life. You saved me._

_You saved me and we are_ real.

She slips her arms around his neck, feeling him, drawing his real self into her, cradling his soul, intertwining their minds. They fit because they are meant to, and she has known it since the day they met, since she was trapped in a Prothean ruin. She knows in the deepest parts of her that no one else was meant to find her, she was destined for him, and he for her, and that is all.

She can taste and sense the things that make _him, Aaron Shepard_.With every second, his anxiety, stress, and fear fall away in favor of raw power, strength, and focus. Every new element is _him_ , along with the sensations of _love, relief, determination, resolve._

Liara locks eyes with him, draws him in, and he follows, melding with her, spiritual, mental, and physical fusion. They are one being, one entity, one life, soul, spirit.

_Liara_ , his voice echoes in her mind.

_Aaron,_ she whispers.

Eternity is a moment in time. Time does not exist in this space. There is one life with two heartbeats, and soon that melts into one, and they are _we_ , _you and me, me and you, never one without the other, only you, only me, always, never ending, only this and nothing more._

_Embrace eternity._

 

 

They wake in the dim dark, exhausted, bodies and minds slowly returning to awareness of _you_ and _me, two separate beings, two individuals_.

He rests his forehead against her neck, exhales heavily.

She holds him, kisses his temple. She never forgot the sensation of his body beside hers, but to have him here is more than she could have hoped for. She’d hoped to talk, to apologize, perhaps test the possibilities. She had not thought it would be so real, so raw, as blissful as the first time.

“I missed you so much.”

He lifts his head, his eyes shining. He touches her face. “I would go through hell to come back to you.”

“You came back to me,” she murmurs. “Can you promise to always come back?”

“For you, I will come back. Always. Forever.” His fingertips slide across her cheek. “I was afraid of a ghost for the past few days. I thought it was going to consume me.”

“And now?”

“Now you’re here.” His lips brush hers. “And I’m not afraid of anything anymore.”

She strokes her hands through his hair, down along his shoulders, and whispers, “You’ll always come back, and I will always be here.”

They hold each other, falling asleep in the comfort of the dark, the embrace, the calm.

The storm can wait a little while longer.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

She wakes first, softly inhaling a breath, a small fear giving way to relief when she turns her head, sees him asleep beside her. He’s curled in on himself, his face relaxed, eyes still beneath his eyelids, calm, drifting in exhausted darkness. She cannot help stroking her fingers along his cheek, a blissful reminder that _he is here, alive, real, whole._

_I have him back. He is back. He is alive._

Liara T’Soni has questioned her belief in the goddess on a daily basis these past two years. Two years of loneliness, desperate nights lying awake, wondering what hell she condemned her lover to, those questions of _did I do the right thing_ and _will he still be the same?_

She knows the answer to those questions now. There is a delicious ache to her body, a joyous bliss in her soul. She has him again, has bonded with him, held him and loved him. He is hers, as certain as anything in this galaxy, he belongs to her, body, soul, and everything in between.

She will hate to leave him today, to return to her ship, to her new role, to her shadows.

_I am the Shadow Broker. I am the monster I destroyed._

_I have someone to keep me from becoming more than that._

She takes her moment to examine him, to study the new, fresh scars on his body, the bruises that mark his torso – _the yahg hit him harder than I thought; goddess, Shepard, the things you do for me, for everyone else –_ the fading bruises around his eyes. He is the same in so many ways, the same face, the familiar body, the same strong, stubborn soul.

She wondered if her soul would remember his, if bonding would be the same, or if it would be tainted by separation. She wonders if other asari feel those same doubts after long distances, but how many other asari can say their lover has returned from death itself? Liara T’Soni has experienced a gift no other of her species has, and she intends to keep him for as long as she can. She will never forget that first union, that fusion of their physical and spiritual selves. This second time, though, is purer, without boundaries, meant to shatter any doubts, to heal them both, to forge a stronger bond than before.

She can feel the echo of his pulse in her mind, the taste of him, the heat of his soul.

_A part of you in me, and a part of me in you. No one can take that from us._

No matter how long she lives, she will always have that. That part of him will be with her forever, into eternity. She will hold that sensation, that feeling, the man who saved her life, whose life she’s saved in turn, but he will always be her protector. She risked all to save him once, and he’s returned the favor a thousand-fold.

She sees his green eyes peering up at her, a smile creasing his mouth. “Good morning,” he mumbles, pressing his face to her hand.

She kisses him, murmurs, “I wish we had more time.”

He nods, opens his arms to her. She settles into his embrace, savoring these last few moments of peace. “Promise me,” she whispers, “promise me you’ll come back.”

“For you, I will always come back.”

He means it. She can feel that truth.

He’s the same. Everything is as it should be. He’s come back to her, and she will never lose him again.

She smiles, blinking back tears. “You will always know where to find me.”

“I’ll find you,” he says. “No matter what.” He sighs. “Even if I get lost in my own head, I’ll always find you.”

She cradles his face in her hands, kisses him, memorizing the feel of his lips. “If you get lost, I know how to bring you back.”

He breathes, “I’ll be here. I’ll always find you. I’ll be here until…” He stops.

“Until what?” She dreads the answer.

He smiles, and she has not seen him smile like that before. He kisses her, and whispers, “I’ll tell you next time.”

She cannot wait.

 

* * *

 

Later, after their good-byes, he sits alone in his cabin.

He is not lost in his thoughts, not in the darkness, or the fear of ghosts or _dybbuks_ or nightmares. He is lost in the memory of blue, of her lips, her eyes, the spark of her soul and her warmth. She is the dream he will hold closest when she is absent, and she is the memory that will guide him through whatever comes next.

He walks to his desk, sees the gift she gave him, his tags. His fingers hover over the metal, and he studies the stamps for a moment. He will wear them again, he knows that as surely as anything, but not today. Maybe not tomorrow either. Maybe not until the _Normandy SR-2_ is an impounded memory, hidden and reclaimed by the Alliance, and he’s branded a traitor or executed.

“Such cheerful thoughts you have,” he grumbles, chiding himself.

He looks at Liara’s picture, upright on his desk, bright, shining. He smiles at her face, finds he can’t keep his final thought for much longer.

He opens his computer, thinks for a long time. When the words come to him, he writes slowly, wanting every word to matter. He sends the message, and whispers aloud, “I miss you. I love you. I’ll see you soon.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Liara’s computer chimes, and she cannot help the delighted smile that creases her mouth when she sees that the email is from him. She opens the message, and reads:

_I’ll be here. Until the end of time, until this galaxy falls, until my last breath, I’ll be here for you. For you, I can do this, I can fight this war, and I can keep going._

_I will love you until the stars go blue, Liara._

_S_

She presses her fingertips to the message, and closes her eyes. She draws in a shaking breath, tears brimming in her eyes. “I love you, Shepard,” she whispers. “I’ll be here, too.”

_Until the stars go blue._

 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was inspired by Ryan Adams' song, 'Stars Go Blue' (album: Gold, 2001).


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